Day 7 – The Vatican

The next morning I have a nice hot shower in our American sized bathroom. Karen and I head downstairs for the complimentary American style breakfast. Bacon and eggs, juice with ice, toast. We also see something you almost never see on Italian tables; salt and pepper shakers. We have fruit and a tart. Of course we see our new Norwegian friends as they finish their breakfast.

For having so many people, most of the major sites in Rome are walkable. Our hotel is on one side of he city and The Vatican is on the other, so we take a cab to the Vatican (12 Euro) and spend the rest of the day working our way back on foot. Of course, the Vatican is the center of the Catholic faith. The Pope lives here and it is the home of St. Peter’s Square and Basilica, the Vatican Museum, the Sistine Chapel and throngs of tourists. What you might not know is the Vatican is its own sovereign country. It has its own government, borders and even its own post office. There are guards (whose job is mostly ceremonial) but don’t believe the rumor that their flamboyant uniforms were designed by Michelangelo.

Even though the Vatican is its own country, you don’t have to show a passport to get to the Vatican. Taking advice from Rick Steves’ Rome guidebook, we purchased our ticket online the night before and avoided the long line. We head straight for the Sistine Chapel. Winding down hallways draped with dozens of tapestries we navigate groups of tourists chatting in German, French, Spanish, Italian, Japanese and, of course, English. Then we come to a long hallway about the length of a football field with frescoes on the ceiling. As I crane my neck and scan the images I look in vain for the iconic image of God creating Adam with his finger. I don’t see it and when we get to the end of the hallway I ask Karen where it is. She says this isn’t the Sistine Chapel, just a hallway leading to it. The Ugly American again.

We turn a corner, go through a door and there it is. The greatest work of the entire Renaissance. You’ve seen pictures of the Sistine Chapel but nothing can prepare you for this. Six stories high and every inch covered with Michelangelo’s brilliance. In the center is God giving Adam the spark of life. You’re not allowed to take pictures in the Chapel and the Vatican has dozens of security to enforce this and trying in vain to enforce the “Silencio” policy.

Stuff I learned about the Sistine Chapel.
1. It took Michelangelo four years to complete most of the Sistine Chapel.
2. Michelangelo returned to the Sistine Chapel to paint the huge fresco at the front of the chapel. By then, he had become disillusioned with the church and The Final Judgment is terrifying. Even Jesus looks pissed and Michelangelo painted himself as a skin shell surely headed to Hell.
3. Frescoes are painted on wet plaster that sets to hold the brilliant colors. If Michelangelo made a mistake, his helpers had to scrape off the plaster and try again.
4. Michelangelo painted standing up, not on his back

After getting our fill (and sore necks) we head out a side door (thanks again, for the tip, Rick Steves). Peter was Jesus’ disciple and right hand man. He was in Rome preaching the gospel when he was crucified by the Roman in 65AD his remains were buried in a cemetery near where the altar in the Basilica is located today. At Peter’s request, he was crucified upside down since he said he was not worthy of being crucified like his savior.

250 years after Peter’s crucifixion, the first Christian emperor, Constantine, built a church on the site of St. Peter’s remains where it stood until 1500. The new church that stands today started construction on 1506. Karen is a good sport. She’s been to Rome twice before and has seen all this. But she walks with me around the inside of the Basilica. But after one lap around St. Peter’s she had to step outside for some air. I had to take a second lap to take this whole thing in. It was on this second lap that I figured out the church is in the shape of a cross. Sometimes you have to hammer me over the head a couple of times before I get the picture.

Dozens or archways and alters are filled with sculptures of popes, saints and Mary. Like I said, it’s overwhelming. Anyway, we cross international border, and head towards the Trevi Fountain. But first, lunch! Our handy GPS led us to La Isola della Pizza where we can get a nice grilled pizza. Sometimes I question the twists and turns the GPS takes us, but without it, we would be like the tens of thousands of other tourists; noses buried in maps and looking for non existent street signs. Italy is like the U2 song “Where the Streets Have No Name.”

We sit outside (our friend Cinzia told us only tourists sit outside) next to a pair of your Japanese women. They soon get a pizza with mushrooms and squash blossoms. They took out their camera and took a picture. Giggling, they show the picture to Karen. They had posed a small stuffed animal next to the pizza. We order a cheese pizza with arugula. The waiter drops a basket of bread on our table and four Italian women in the table behind us promptly light cigarettes.

When I first went to Italy in 2001, everybody smoked. Oftentimes we would eat outside (like tourists) even if it was cold outside in an effort to escape the smoke. A few years later, most Western European countries started to ban smoking indoors. I thought this was doomed to failure in Italy since almost everyone smoked. But we found that the Italians abide by this rule and now restaurants, trains and indoor public spaces are smoke free. So, we will have to go inside to escape all the Italians who routinely light up outdoors.

Across from us, a couple each get a big steak and a large Italian man with a beard tucked a napkin into his collar as plate after plate of food arrived at his table. The waiter chases away some street musicians, the Japanese girls pay their bill and left and we are still munching on bread and water. The four Italian women behind us finish their meal and each light up a post lunch cigarette when our pizza arrives. Very much worth the wait. The pizza is cooked perfectly in a wood oven with the arugula added at the end. Spicy olive oil is an added treat that dripped from the pizza with each bite. Pay the bill and off to the Trevi Fountain.

If you have ever seen “Roman Holiday” with Audrey Hepburn or “Three Coins in a Fountain” then you’ve seen the Trevi Fountain. We walk to the Piazza lined with cafes and restaurants. The fountain is lined with artists displaying their wares. There are some cheesy caricature artists and knick knacks for the tourists, but there is also some very fine work here. Landscape, still life, and architecture are all well represented. Karen and I talked about buying some, but how do we get it home? The artist surely won’t ship to the US and we would be left folding up a work of art in our backpack. As I plug the next stop, the Pantheon, into the GPS, Karen says “Let’s go to the Trevi Fountain.” Apparently the Ugly American wasn’t paying attention during “Roman Holiday.”

If I though the Ragula Fountain was crowded, then Trevi is jam-packed. Street vendors sell everything from soap bubble guns to miniature marionettes. Everyone has to toss a coin over their shoulder into the fountain to ensure a return trip to Rome, so the legend goes. I partake in the tradition, though I don’t know when and if we will be back. Rome is a fine international, livable and civilized city. But will we go back before we have a chance to go to Turin or Milan? What about Madrid, Split, Berlin, Copenhagen, Oslo, Brussels or Auckland and Sydney. Seems unlikely.

Next up, the Pantheon. We walk there and look at the marble façade. Turns out, when the marble columns arrived to hold up the façade, they were shorter than ordered. So, the plan for the Pantheon had to be changed. Just another case of a vendor screwing a customer. Inside, the dome is spectacular. The only light is supplies by the opening in at the top of the dome. So what happens when it rains? You get wet. There are holes in the floor to drain the water. All the domes that came later are based on the Pantheon including the Duomo in Florence and St. Peter’s. Inside is the crypt of Queen Margarhita (of Pizza Margarhita fame) and her husband the King. Exhausted, we walk by the Spanish Steps on the way back to our hotel and have a siesta before dinner.

We ask the guy at the front desk to recommend a restaurant good for vegetarians. He hands us the card for the pizzeria we ate at last night. We ask for something more “sophisticate.” He gives us a card for Mater Matura, about a five minute walk. We stroll down Via Nationale past the high end boutiques, windows filled with fashionable thigh high leather boots for 190 Euro. Left on Via Milano and two blocks down on the left is Mater Matura. We are led downstairs to a barand through four small dining areas with two or three small tables in each. Our waiter gives us menus and we order aqua naturale (you must order naturale or you will get carbonated water). I look over the extensive wine list (Italian wines only), organized by region. There is only one Puglia wine, though, so I scan the wines from Toscano. There are 30-40 choices and I narrow it down to two. I ask the waiter for his opinion, but my Italian is lacking. He leaves and returns with Daniel, a gregarious native of Tome who suggested we get the Merlot/Cab blend. We ordered an eggplant parmesan and a fennel salad with orange, arugula and romaine. As a longtime vegetarian, I judge the skill of a chef by how he prepares eggplant. Improperly prepared eggplant will be tough a chewy. This eggplant is wonderfully fork tender, even with the skin on. The eggplant slices are wrapped around the mozz with a simple tomato sauce on top. A couple of spoonfuls of pesto completed the dish. Simple, delicate, stunning. And perfectly paired with wine.

Then, our salad and entrée came out. Homemade tagliatalle simply dressed with olive oil, pepper and pecorino cheese. The fresh pasta was made with eggs and worked to perfection. The starch from the pasta mixing with the slightly melted cheese made a lovely sauce. Karen normally doesn’t like pecorino, finding it too salty, but this suited her well. We linger over our meal for well over two hours, talking to Daniel about Rome, wine and the restaurant. Later, he brings out the chef, Jinluca, Daniel’s friend since they were both 10 years old.

We leave full, but not stuffed and happy. Still early by Italian standards, we head to a small Irish pub near the hotel. The Serie B futbol match on the TV is winding down. I order a pint of Elephant, a strong ale. The bartender, a big strong guy with a shaved head talks futbol (the big game coming up is Roma vs. Lazio). The blonde bartender flirts with him relentlessly as he downs a shot of whiskey returned by some patron.